Wilting Roses
by canibecandid
Summary: But on April 17th of 2002, a Wednesday of all days, Molly decides that maybe it's worth it after all. Because of a groan in the alley way, because of blue eyes begging for something more, pleading for life like a prayer. He's in between when she finds him, old track marks on his spindly arms should warn her away, but she can't stop. Her heart races as she flutters in front of him,


"Molly, you have to touch him again. Before the last petal falls."

The way Dylan Hooper says it makes her know that this is not a joke. This is the end, watching as each enchanted petal falls to her nail beds and disappears. But Molly has never been so happy.

Sherlock Holmes is, without a doubt, the most brilliant man she's ever met and she would have loved to spent more time with him.

"You're falling ill." He tells her one day, early in their friendship.

"Everyone falls ill, Sherlock." Molly smiles over the body before reawakening it for Sherlock to question. "Hello, name, age and marital status if you could?" She asks kindly, before stepping out of the way and giving Sherlock the rest of the whole minute of reanimation she could give the body.

It's her gift, and she's one of the few reanimators in the world, and she's so pleased to see it come to use instead of being regarded as a social impairment.

He doesn't mention her illness again and Molly is grateful for it.

She sits in her office, after he's left and gone to tell Lestrade what he was able to piece together in the brief minute, and drinks her nearly abandoned lukewarm coffee with a small grimace.

Her stomach clenches and she feels a bit more of her life draining out of her. Her mind circles and sways like the petals falling down her arm.

* * *

"A pound for a pound, the whole world round." The doctor had told her simply, when she was eleven and had finally discovered her gift. "The longer you keep someone alive, the more it takes from you."

She has a private tutor, one who tells her so many things about reanimation that it makes her head hurt and confuses her horribly.

"Will you show me? Will you reanimate something? A bee or something small?" She asks quietly in Chuck's garden one day.

"Oh Molly, I'm not a reanimator. His name was Ned, and I loved him." Chuck's wrinkled hands wipe a way a tear from her sleepy brown eyes that used to glitter with mirth. "See Molly, the first touch brings life, but the second brings death. Anything kept alive over a minute causes an equal exchange or…" Charlotte Charles's smile wavers for the first time in Molly's young life. "You give your life over to them. Over time, they're energy comes directly from you. I never knew- not till the end."

Chuck then tells stories of her former life with Ned, the reanimator and pie maker.

And while her story is beautiful, Molly is afraid. Afraid that she could love someone so much that she'd give them her life.

But on April 17th of 2002, a Wednesday of all days, Molly decides that maybe it's worth it after all. Because of a groan in the alley way, because of blue eyes begging for something more, pleading for life like a prayer. He's in between when she finds him, old track marks on his spindly arms should warn her away, but she can't stop.

Her heart races as she flutters in front of him, unsure of what to do. There is only one thing that calls to her, and that's to keep the light in his eyes from dimming out like all the other's she had seen.

"Please, please live." Molly begs, but he shivers and shakes before flickering out. Without a second thought, her hand reaches out and touches his cheek. There's a sharp zing in her chest as she feels her power flow through her, and it's unlike it's anything she's ever known.

She leaps to her feet as the man groans and his eyes flicker back open, giving her a curious stare before she runs down the alley

That day, Molly Hooper calls into work and makes an appointment with a depictor.

"I need something that will tell me how long I have left."

The depictor chooses a rose placed at the top of her right shoulder, tattooing it on her skin. Molly feels their life-magic pour into her, the mark coming to life, and even before her appointment is over a petal as fallen from her new time piece and has disappeared past the beds of her nails.

Molly, for her part, has done a wonderful job at avoiding Sherlock's attempts at physical contact. Once at the of a breathy moan, a la Irene Adler, at Christmas and then later after they finished talking to the railway man.

Every time, she deflects the kiss that would have landed on her cheek. Quickly turning away so that he wouldn't touch her skin and his light would diminish again.

Because she loves him, even though he says cruel and biting words to her. She loves him, even though she has said that she love another.

She loves him, even though they cannot be.

* * *

It's April 17th 2014, a Thursday of all the days. Molly knows that it's coming, and if she's honest, she's known for awhile. She's so tired now, so weak. But she's seen so much more than she could have ever imagined. Dylan sits by her side, ever the faithful companion as Sherlock opens the door and stands awkwardly in it's frame. He's out of his element, but God bless him, he's trying.

Dylan's jaw clenches, but he says nothing, they've already agreed that this is the way it should be. He's not happy about it, but he stands in the hallway with Sherlock's brother looming in the windows. Sherlock shuts the door behind him and places himself in the hospital chair.

"Hello." Molly says to him after a moment more of silence. "You think if I had made a cake, your brother would give me more time?" She asks teasingly, smiling at the reaper who cocks an eye brow and lifts his umbrella in a greeting. For once, Sherlock is stunned speechless, and Molly chuckles lowly. "You're not the only one who can observe, Sherlock."

His ears flush red and he's almost vibrating in his chair. Sherlock doesn't say anything as he fishes a book of poetry out of his coat.

It's the American poet, Shel Silverstine, and she hasn't heard his work since she was a little girl. But the words come to life right before Molly's eyes, Sherlock's deep baritone coaxing the words off the page. She finally understands his gift, so similar to her own, as vivid images appear before her and illustrate the poem, acting out their scenes.

She laughs in delight at the images of the Ourchestra. Using their stomachs as drums and mimicking the sounds of horns. As the poem ends, they dissolve away like the grain on a TV.

"You're smiling. That's good." It's the first thing he's said to her outside of his readings, and he smiles shyly back.

"Yes, thank you. That was lovely." Tears prick the corners of her eyes as a weight settles on her chest. Her eyes feel so droopy, but she doesn't want to lose this moment. "Thank you for sharing your gift."

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, but they both spot the last floating petal drifting slowly down her arm.

"I should be the one saying that." He want's to say something profound, but his words have failed him for once. Because without Molly Hooper, he would not be alive.

"I've always trusted you. I never understood why, but I did. You've always counted. You've always mattered the most."

Sherlock reaches out for her.

"Don't." She croaks, his hand freezes and she tries to smile through her tears. "I chose you. I wanted you to live. Please, please live." She blinks twice, before her warm chocolate eyes close and her breathing slows.

Sherlock watches as the soft pink petal disappears over the edges of her nail beds. Shakily, he takes her hand and their fingers intertwine.

It is the first and last time he has ever touched Molly Hooper.


End file.
